


a night in the hothouse

by paintedwolffe



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Coruscant Underworld (Star Wars), Deception, Fade to Black, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27845746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedwolffe/pseuds/paintedwolffe
Summary: “I would advise strongly against this, sir.”“Ah yes, yes, fine. Understood. But what could possibly go wrong?”Well, I can think of a few things, says Clone Commander Fox to himself as he follows Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine into the bowels of a seedy, underdark hothouse.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox/Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs 2020





	a night in the hothouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [distractionpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/gifts).



“I would advise strongly against this, sir.”

“Ah yes, yes, fine. Understood. But what could possibly go wrong?”

 _Well, I can think of a few things_ , says Clone Commander Fox to himself as he follows Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine into the bowels of a seedy, underdark hothouse.

Coruscant is the most densely-populated planet in the galaxy: life stacked upon life upon life hundreds of kilometers into the sky, and life stacked upon life upon life many more kilometers deep into the earth. There are countless untold places in the underdark of this world city that starlight has never touched—and never will.

This nameless hothouse is one of those places.

There is a designated changing area for new arrivals. Fox watches as the Chancellor undresses slowly, methodically, his offer of assistance acknowledged and politely declined. Although neither man has arrived wearing official garb—clone trooper armor in the case of Fox, ceremonial robes of office in the case of the Chancellor—if they wish to blend in and pass unnoticed, they must wear even less clothing still. Heat makes the baser, carnal passions flare, and the hothouse is so named for a reason.

“I will not be able to guarantee your safety,” says Fox. ‘Will not,’ not ‘may not.’ The stark reminder, spoken aloud, pains him. He commands the Coruscant Guard; the Chancellor’s safety is his personal responsibility! And while weapons may be prohibited, with concealed weapons a flat impossibility, hothouse patrons can nonetheless be dangerous to themselves and others—infamously dangerous. They’re one of the most prominent reasons the underdark maintains such a notorious reputation.

Here, Fox has only the body the Kaminoans gave him to protect the Chancellor.

“Oh, I would not expect them to be violent,” replies the Chancellor, unconcerned. He flaps a hand, a laconic gesture dismissive of the danger.

Fox frowns. “They are Separatist sympathizers.”

“They are not interested the Confederacy’s martial posture. They are attracted to the Confederacy’s promise to restore local political control. Yes, yes—ideological foolishness, I know,” the Chancellor hastens to add, “but my allies in the Senate would not allow me to compromise the war effort by opening negotiations with such a strategically important system at this time. You must forgive the unsavory meeting venue, Commander, since it does seem possible that we might yet come to a mutually amenable arrangement.”

“Yes, sir.” Fox is a loyal servant. He would forgive much worse, provided it’s the Chancellor who asks. Truth be told, he _has_ forgiven much worse.

“Excellent. And now, Commander”—the Chancellor’s thin lips twist into a sardonic smile—“I’m afraid you will need to undress as well if you are to accompany me.”

“Yes, sir.” Fox is a loyal servant. He does as he is told.

Together, he and the Chancellor move deeper into the hothouse. The Chancellor leads; Fox follows. The light is dim. Fox keeps his eyes resolutely forward and tries not to look at the writhing torsos, the twisting limbs, the tongues and teeth and mouths, the other…more…more…secretive orifices. The heat is stifling, like a heavy blanket. Grunts, moans, and soft cries of a hundred beings fill the humid air like erotic music. Nervously, Fox wipes the sweat from his brow. His attention isn’t meant for these hothouse hedonists; he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the flesh of the Chancellor’s back—the pale, unblemished skin with its fine dusting of ginger-and-silver hair, the handsome curve of the spine, the swell of the hips and dimpled buttocks—

“Over here.”

Fox snaps back to attention. The Chancellor is indicating a recessed alcove with seating for six, currently unoccupied. Fox assesses the situation quickly. The alcove is intended for spur-of-the-moment trysts, so it ought to provide a modicum of privacy away from circulating patrons. A good location, all in all, Fox decides, one that will neither arouse suspicion or draw attention to them.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable, Commander,” says the Chancellor. “They should be arriving shortly.”

Except they don’t arrive shortly.

At first, Fox remains seated beside the Chancellor in the alcove. Their bodies are close, their bare flesh not quite touching. In spite of the high ambient temperature, Fox can feel an intense heat radiating from the surface of the Chancellor’s skin, like he is on fire from within. Hot passions within, hot passions without. Moans of arousal, cries of consummation. Fox refuses to look. But the tension builds within Fox’s belly anyway, and there is no respite, no escape…no escape…

Hours pass, and Fox becomes increasingly restless. He cannot stifle his arousal anymore, cannot conceal it. He certainly cannot touch himself or another being to relieve it. No, he dare not continue sitting close to the Chancellor. He lives to serve—he _loves_ —

So he is on his feet, pacing, on guard. He is starting to feel afraid. Fear, as it turns out, builds inside of one’s belly much like sexual arousal. “This could be a trap,” he announces.

The Chancellor leans one shoulder against the alcove curving wall. Although his arousal is unmistakable, for what man would not be affected by the sordid delights of the hothouse, his posture is relaxed. Untroubled. “Hmm. Have you detected any evidence of this, Commander?”

“No, sir, but—” Fox starts.

“On the balance, I do not think it likely that we have been betrayed,” interrupted the Chancellor. “They would have acted before now, surely. More likely, I would think, that _they_ are the ones who have been betrayed.” He strokes his chin thoughtfully.

“I suppose it’s…that it’s…poss…possible…” Fox chokes on his words, distracted by the sight of the Chancellor’s hand. His expression is lazy, mild, but that hand, that wicked hand is moving from his chin, to his throat, to his chest, trailing down his abdomen towards…

“It would be a shame to waste this journey,” says the Chancellor.

Fox feels his insides jolt, like they have been struck by lightning. Desire overwhelms him, and he cannot look away. He licks his lips. Then he closes the distance between himself and the Chancellor.

They touch.

The underdark hothouse _was_ a trap after all. Just not the kind that Fox had feared.


End file.
